


Where to go when there's no way back?

by Urimaginarygirlfriend



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, F/M, Kinda, dark?, jon and sansa still think they're siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:44:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urimaginarygirlfriend/pseuds/Urimaginarygirlfriend
Summary: And now, she does not know what to say, does not know what to feel or believe, when she longs to belong in The North, but fits better in the South she has grown to despise. She has spies all over Winterfell, and Lord Baelish never strays far from her side. And still you have the audacity to dine with your siblings, the nerve to call yourself Lady of Winterfell.





	

There are certain things she expects of Arya, and this is definitely one of them. "I won't do it. I don't have to do things I don't want to. I'm not a Lady," Arya almost shouts, defiance clear on her face. Sansa sighs, and tries to ignore the annoyance that's creeping up on her. "It's just for a night, Arya. Please, it's just a dress." Arya scoffs, and folds her arms over her chest.

"And I won't wear it. I'll see you at the feast, sister." Then she walks off, and Sansa is left alone in her solar, feeling a throbbing headache coming on.

She does not expect Arya to wear dresses in her everyday life, but it would not look well for her to be unpresentable, like she so often is, at the feast that's taking place tonight. All the high Lords of the North and Queen Daenerys is coming, and Arya is old enough to understand that she has to look proper for this. She doesn't have to like it, she just has to do it, so they can at least give off a shred of respectability to the nobility that will be attending.

 _A crowned bastard, a scheming widow and a girl in breaches,_ Sansa thinks bitterly. The power and glory that once belonged to the Starks has faded, and is now replaced by what loyalty she and Jon has earned while taking back Winterfell. They call her the Red Bird and Lady Sansa, not Lady Stark, as if the name has been shifted out too many times for her to deserve it again. Arya is the Wild Wolf, whilst Jon is their Lord Commander, the White Wolf.

_The King in The North._

Sansa feels something akin to fire burn underneath her skin at the reminder, and it makes her restless, it almost makes her forget about the things that are more important than these childish feelings.

She finds her way down to the crypts, and walks beside the kings of old, the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell, and she feels no connection to them, no common ground. _You, with your honour, with your right ways and your noble hearts, sitting down here with your legacy above you._ She could only feel resentment at them, and none of the familiarity she wished was there. Not even as a girl had she felt welcome here, always longing for things she didn't understand.

And now, she does not know what to say, does not know what to feel or believe, when she longs to belong in The North, but fits better in the South she has grown to despise. She has spies all over Winterfell, and Lord Baelish never strays far from her side. _And still you have the audacity to dine with your siblings, the nerve to call yourself Lady of Winterfell._

And still she feels like she deserves it, when she has done nothing wrong, yet nothing right. _I did what I had to do to survive,_ she wants to scream at the statues.

She acted to stay alive in King's Landing, she escaped in the dead of night and watched her saviour being shot with an arrow, she posed as a bastard for her aunt, then watched as she was killed and lied about it afterwards, she married a monster who raped her and fed him to his dogs, she found her long lost brother and sister, and yet she only feels like she doesn't belong with them. 

Oh, the irony, that Lord and Lady Stark's perfect, little girl should become a liar and a widow, beaten and raped for all to see. But despite the odds she's still alive, still someone to be reckoned with. Should she be ashamed at that? Her heart tells her no, whilst the Lords in the crypts and the Lords upstairs tell her yes, yes, yes. 

And their voices are those that matters, when she walks past the recently unearthed grave of the last King of Winter, and wants the crown her brother wears for herself. She doesn't deserve it, for all the foul things she has done to get here, and yet that is why she does. 

So she feels her knees buckle and the hard stone floors against her cheek, and wishes she could just make up her twisted mind. It feels like every part of her wants something different, and she hears both Petyr's and Jon's words echo through her head. _"The crown should be yours. You've done so much,"_ Petyr had said, but it is always accompanied by another string of words spoken a while after, _"You will always be a schemer in their eyes. And you'll stay a schemer forever."_

Whilst Jon, reckless thing that he is, had come to her after the coronation and told her he was sorry, but still fights about Petyr like he is a disease, not knowing how much Sansa takes after him. 

She hears steps, and knows that it's Jon, it's always Jon who comes to her, almost like he senses when something is wrong. She looks up at him, at his beautiful face and cold eyes, that seem like they warm for her. "I don't want to talk about Arya," she says, and sits up. 

He sighs, and sits down beside her. He never pushes things with her, he doesn't talk about things she doesn't want to talk about, except when he thinks that he's right. It doesn't happen often, but it happens enough that Jon and Sansa has become famous for their arguments. 

When Jon had been newly crowned, Sansa understood that she couldn't ask him to step down, that it would only weaken their position. Sometimes Sansa had been sad, and Jon had been there to hold her, and every now and then they'd forget who they where or what they where doing, and Jon had kissed her, while Sansa kissed him. They had never talked about it, never dared acknowledge it in daylight. 

Then Arya had come along, and Sansa hates to admit that that's when all their problems started again, even though it isn't Arya's fault at all. That was when the guilt had started to tinge their meetings grey, when Jon started talking whilst he was in her bed. 

"This is wrong," he had said once, while she was biting his lip and his hands where in her hair. She had stopped dead in her tracks, and looked at his eyes, full of desire, fear, and something close to love. "Yes, it is," she had said, and leaned closer. "But is that going to stop you?" 

His eyes where sad as he kissed her then, but she knew she had him at her mercy. He would have given her the world if she asked for it, and Sansa still wasn't sure if she wanted it. Now, she knows that she doesn't; the Iron Throne has no place in her heart anymore. 

Still she has kept up this folly with Jon, but only now does she realise how much their roles have changed. Jon has grown a backbone since he became King; Sansa doesn't know how or why, but his noble heart has made a decision, and that is one she will regret for the rest of her life. 

He's giving up the North, all because he fears this Dragon Queen too much to tell her what is his right. 

_My right._

She leans her head on his shoulder, and his quick intake of breath is a sharp reminder that what they have is not normal, not healthy. Sansa doesn't think she truly cares. Nothing about her is normal anymore. But now it is her that seeks contact, rather than him. 

She remembers only last night, when he had finished her, and she was quite thoroughly unraveled, her bones turned to liquid and her head drunk with pleasure, and she had almost said she loved him. It had even start to slip out of her mouth, when she caught herself and changed it into absent-minded mumbling. He had hummed in agreement, and she had looked into those big, grey eyes and thought _I would have done anything for you._

She had scared herself, in how deep her devotion ran, in how natural it felt, while a voice in her screamed _he is your brother!_ and another told her _he should be saying that to you._

And so she sits in the crypts, her head resting on her cold brother-lover's shoulder, her sister refusing to grow up in the halls above her, and the ghost of a crown on her head, belonging to a kingdom that was never hers, but she's already lost. 


End file.
